MOD PLOT ↠ ALL SOULS WHO TAKE UP THE SWORD

[faderifting]

WHO: Nearly everyone
WHAT: Retaking Val Chevin
WHEN: Late Firstfall into early/mid-Haring, 9:47
WHERE: Val Chevin, Orlais
NOTES: Generated injuries here! CWs for violence, slavery mentions. Use content warnings in your comment subject lines as needed.

THE BATTLE

The battle begins just after dawn, once the distraction at the harbor has drawn as much of the enemy force to that end of the city as possible. Bombardment (magical or otherwise) is fruitless while the elvhen shield artifact continues to magically reinforce the walls and gates, but a Riftwatch team is on its way and will soon have disabled it. In the meantime, while the enemy's attention is focused on the harbor the assault begins. The first waves of soldiers are sent up ladders to try to fight their way over. Some make it, and fight their way along the battlements to try to reach the gate below, in hopes of unbarring it from within even before the shield is broken. The attacking force very nearly manages a lightning-quick victory, numbers pouring over a section of the wall left unmanned by the harbor distraction. They might have managed it when, suddenly, a rush of magic descends down onto the walls, physically, enough to blow their hair back and everything, and a glowing dome spreads over the city—essentially an enormous magical barrier.

Those at the tops of ladders suddenly find their blows absorbed by the magic rather than landing on the overwhelmed guards along the wall, while the defenders' blades still pierce through from within. The tide quickly begins to turn in favor of the Tevinter defenders. Some of the attackers are caught already within the walls when the barrier drops, and without more following behind them are quickly outnumbered, either killed or forced to flee deeper into the city to try to avoid capture. There is traffic jam at the top of the wall as forward progress abruptly halts, and at least one ladder accidentally falls in the resulting confusion, taking a dozen or so attackers with it. Attacks from the walls above now rain down with impunity as the attackers attempt to force their way through the barrier, reasoning that all barriers break eventually and it's just a matter of applying enough force. For a short period that feels longer, the battle stagnates, all the damage being taken by the allied forces, the Tevinters on the wall able to regroup and reinforce their ranks.

It takes longer than anyone had planned but finally the Riftwatch team inside the city is successful and the barrier dome dissipates as abruptly as it had appeared. A cheer goes up, flagging morale restored, and the assault takes on renewed intensity. Without their magical protection the gate is no longer unbreachable. Rams are aimed at it and magical force as well, protected by archers and more mages, with assistance from some griffon riders above. The enemy throws down scalding stones, oil, even Antivan fire, but their force is stretched thinner and thinner, and more and more attackers make it over the walls to harry them back. Finally the gate splinters, and the armies of Orlais and the Divine stream into Val Chevin.

The Tevinter and Ander forces don't give in that easily. They make a stand in the central square of the city, fighting on the steps of the Chantry and the lip of the great fountain itself with its four leaping seahorses. They retreat through the streets, broken up into smaller groups, some barricading themselves inside a building, others seeking to hide in a home, more running, or looking for chokepoints they can defend, mages tearing stones out of walls to block pursuit. Some of the people of Val Chevin, sensing an end to the occupation at last, join the fight, driving soldiers out of their homes and shops with pitchforks and butcher's knives, raining trash and debris down on them from windows, calling out warnings and directions to friendly forces, offering water or aid where they can.

By mid-afternoon, it's over. Some of the occupying force have managed to flee into the countryside or into one of the few ships remaining intact in the harbor. Many more are dead. The remainder, perhaps as many as a thousand, are gradually cornered at various places around the city and give themselves up. Not all surrenders are honored--some, particularly Orlesians and locals caught up in the fighting, are eager to dispatch the enemy occupiers once and for all and unless someone intervenes may ignore the laying down of arms. Stragglers still attempting to hide or escape are rounded up throughout the day (some even later), tracked down by searchers or turned in by locals.

THE "SAFE AND SECURE" SHIP

Anchored at what is believed to be a safe distance just up the coast to the northeast of the city, Riftwatch's shipboard base of operations provides a landing and launch area for griffons, triage for wounded, and on large tables and boards a collection of detailed maps of the area and of the city and its various districts on which action is tracked as crystal reports come in. Some are assigned to shifts manning the crystals: taking in reports, asking questions, soliciting aid, sending griffon riders where they're most needed. Others analyze the information provided, plot it on the maps, or coordinate with allied movements. Supplies are doled out from the ship as well, from spare weapons and armor to food and water, grenades, lyrium potions, healing poultices. Though the breeze only intermittently carries the sounds of battle out here, the ship is still a buzz with activity throughout the day.

Disaster doesn't strike until the afternoon, when a group of Tevinters fleeing the city manage to commandeer one of the remaining mostly-intact ships and somehow make it out of the harbor despite not entirely knowing how to sail. They straggle out into the bay, catch the wrong current, and are suddenly on top of the Riftwatch ship. Though smaller and already beginning to sink, the Tevinter vessel manages to tangle itself with Riftwatch's anchor cable, and the couple of mages on board make a doomed attempt to trade up for the bigger, more seaworthy model. They fail, but not before managing to do some serious damage to Riftwatch's ship, sufficient to sink it as well.

A hasty evacuation follows by griffon and longboat. The ship sinks rapidly, leaving just barely enough time to get all the wounded ferried to shore and still come back for the healthy before they go down with the ship.

THE AFTERMATH

IMMEDIATE NEEDS

First things first: the wounded from the battle need to be attended to, including not only those from Riftwatch's ranks, but also members of the Orlesian military, local civilians, and Tevinter and Ander prisoners—though opinions vary about whether or not to provide them with any assistance. The Orlesian military has supplies and surgeons, and Riftwatch will be welcome to either seek care or help provide it in medical tents that are set up on the outskirts of the city even before the fighting has fully concluded. During this first evening, this area is not a peaceful place to be, filled with shouts and moans and blood-spattered people darting between emergencies. Even with Riftwatch's help (and magic), resources are stretched thin enough by severe injuries that those who look like they're going to survive without help might be turned away to deal with their pain and cosmetic concerns the old fashioned ways: finding elfroot sprouting up between the cobblestones to chew on, or gritting their teeth and getting over it.

Throughout the night, paranoia persists about the possibility that belated reinforcements—or, worse, a dragon—might arrive to prolong the battle. Soldiers keep watch along the walls and at some forward locations, and Riftwatch's griffon riders are sent to observe the portions of the occupying force that fled north and ensure there's nothing amiss. Nothing seems to be, but continuing to lightly harass the Tevinter and Ander forces to hurry them on their way and keep them from pausing to ransack anything won't hurt.

In the morning, back in Val Chevin, those who look strong and uninjured are enlisted to help with clearing debris from the places where the fighting was heavy and magical enough to collapse walls and roofs or topple statues, or else loading bodies onto carts bound for the pyres outside the city. By mid-morning plumes of smoke streak the sky. The bulk of the damage and death is concentrated on the docks, where the dreadnought crashed and where the initial smash-and-burn fighting took place. Meanwhile, throughout the harbor, griffons will prove useful in examining the water for concentrations of floating bodies—which need to be fished out to avoid a walking dead problem in the future—or debris that's potentially either useful or dangerous. Given what the dreadnought assault team reports, there's also a careful search for any red lyrium-infested sea creatures in the harbor, but while other pens like the one that contained the very large red lyrium octopus they encountered, all have been destroyed in the chaos and no other beasts are spotted.

TAKING STOCK

Over the course of the week, supplies arrive by land and by sea from across Orlais—some from the government, some from charitable patriots who put together donation drives as soon as they heard the news. About eighty percent are practical and useful: winter shoes and clothing, flour and preserves and other long-lasting foods, bolts of fabric, apothecary supplies, a few dairy animals and chickens. The usefulness of the rest varies, including a crate of used toys (labeled FOR THE SWEET PEASANT CHILDREN), an assortment of expensive hats that were in season last winter, and collections of plain masks and face paints in case Tevinter was cruelly forcing anyone to go barefaced. Riftwatch is given leave to distribute these to people as they find needs to meet.

The surviving Orlesian civilians who have been trapped in the occupied city for the last two and a half years haven't been as starved or brutalized as popular imagination may have assumed, but the experience has been plenty miserable. Outside of a few public executions, agitators and those who fomented rebellion against the occupiers have by and large disappeared more quietly. Due to its collective general experience with the Tevinter language and magic, Riftwatch is given the fairly depressing task of sorting through the cells and torture chambers in Val Chevin's central keep, where records and other evidence of executions remain. It's enough to determine who died and how. Some had quick deaths; others were tortured or used for blood magic rituals. A handful appear to have been removed from the city and sent north to be held in Tevinter instead. Relaying the specifics to family members will generally be the responsibility of Orlesian officials, but family members eager for information may corner Riftwatchers coming or going from the fortress to press them for details.

Over the next couple weeks Riftwatch is also called to assist with handling other remnants of the Tevinter occupation, such as translating documents, evaluating evidence of blood magic, and sorting through relics and enchanted objects accumulated by the Venatori. Among the things left behind is a trove of elven artifacts seemingly extracted from nearby temples. None are as powerful as the shield; most seem to be completely unmagical cultural relics.

Elsewhere, many locals were evicted from their homes to make room for Tevinter occupiers. While Orlesian officials sort through claims to those homes, including several contentious competing claims, Riftwatch is sent into them to sort through what the enemy left behind and make sure they're safe for their occupants to return to. In many they find the ashy remains of hastily burned private documents and a variety of fairly mundane magical objects: spoons that stir themselves, hats that are always cool on the inside, candles that light and extinguish in response to clapping.Each is the work of a bound spirit that can be released or destroyed—or left to continue its eternal work, if someone wants to pocket an object rather than restore it to its original inanimate state. Throughout the city, there may also be opportunities to reunite grateful civilians with appropriated belongings ranging from fine art to beloved old horses.

Orlesians aren't the only ones in the city in need of assistance. A small number of Tevinter slaves—exclusively those performing menial tasks, as far as anyone can tell—remain in the city now that their masters have been killed or captured. With the Orlesian populace and military inclined, on average, to consider them threats and collaborators, Riftwatch's intervention on their behalf is necessary. Interviewing them and checking their stories against witness accounts and Tevinter records, to ensure none of them are Venatori mages or gleeful torturers in disguise, will allow Riftwatch to vouch for them confidently. They may also be able to find sympathetic locals willing to shelter and hire those who would like to remain in the city, though there aren't that many who do want to stay.

Throughout their time in the city, Riftwatch representatives are asked to report what they find regarding the treatment of the locals and any practice of blood magic. While Orlesian officers ask for Riftwatch members to give this information to them directly, it's quickly clear that it's likely to influence Orlais' decisions about how to deal with the thousand-odd Tevinter prisoners. Individuals identified as responsible for atrocities are being tortured or executed, especially if they're unlikely to have or provide information, and there is nothing ensuring the entire group won't be ultimately executed after the dust settles. With that in mind, Riftwatch receives instructions from the Division Heads to instead bring the information to them so it can be compiled, double-checked, screened for any individuals Riftwatch may need to question themselves, and delivered with a diplomatic touch.

GOING HOME (OR NOT)

Approximately a week after the battle, as the majority of Riftwatch is preparing to leave, Empress Celene and members of her retinue arrive in Val Chevin. They're greeted by a restrained military parade and less restrained enthusiasm from the civilians, who will line the streets to catch a glimpse and celebrate the symbolic return of the city to full Orlesian control. Riftwatch's attendance is not mandatory. Most of the organization leaves that day to return to Kirkwall and their other work. However, a small number remain behind for a few more days, overseen by the heads of Diplomacy and Forces, to provide administrative support while the Ambassador and Commander liaise with the Empress' people about their plans for the Tevinter prisoners. As thanks, they might be invited to endure a few stifling fancy dinners.

Comments

I.

[notathreat]

The battle's a burning wash of blood, and urban fighting is Ellie's specialty. Plenty of places to hide, the ability to move past and disappear quickly. She's ducked into an alleyway, a sweeping little bit of finery, down on one knee and working a cork from a bottle of spirits, ripping an edge from a captured curtain to restock her molotovs.

She's breathing hard but quietly, every gasp through her nose as she grits her teeth around a cloth. She's got her back to a wall, but there are two ways at her, and an enemy soldier catches sight of her with her hands full. Astarion catches the assailant before she does.

Ellie comes up with her knife out, a dagger glinting sharp against her forearm, a firestarter in her other hand, and the cloth still clenched in her teeth.

As the man's life bleeds out at her feet, she spits it out, wipes the back of her hand across her mouth.

"Be a little bloodier," she as she returns his crooked grin, glancing over the shadows on his face. She lifts an eyebrow, stuffing the cloth into the top of the bottle, making sure the bottom of it soaks into the spirits. She offers it to him.

"Here. For helping."

[illithidnapped]

“Poor you.” Comes a dithering exhale from between Astarion’s teeth, proud and frayed all at once when he opts to sit down atop his own slain quarry, reaching to take the bottle with an inherent curiosity.

It catches the light when he tips it, smooth amber seeping into silk.

“Little early to start drinking in celebration, don’t you think?”

[notathreat]

Ellie makes a face when he sits on the corpse, mostly because of the slight squishiness and the way the guy sluggishly bleeds more. She doesn't feel all that bad for him, but it's still gross.

Instead of commenting, she taps the side of the bottle, lets the silk trail through her fingers.

"You light this end," she says, wiggling at him. "And throw it. When it hits something, or somebody, it explodes and lights everything on fire. It's called a molotov cocktail."

[illithidnapped]

"Oh." Soft and curious, head cocking just so as his elbows find his own knees. His shoulder burns, his skin feels cold; he needs the support more than he'll ever let on when he smiles in all sincerity. "How novel."

And it's true, despite all his stalling for a discreet moment of catching his breath: he'd never heard of it before. Never seen anything like it, himself. Not here, and not in Faerûn either.

"And here I thought you just fancied wasting good spirits with dirtied cloth."

Maybe a ritual of sorts from her world.

[notathreat]

"Just basic science. Been making these since I was a kid. I'm not a total monster."

Ellie flashes him a smile, but it fades at the edges, flickering as she starts to catch on to the way he's not entirely focusing on her, the way he sounds overly breathy.

She goes from joking and sassing him to serious, composed, stepping quickly into his space and reaching out to lay the back of her hand against his cheek, then his forehead. He's sweaty.

"Astarion?" she says softly, an inkling of fear stealing into her eyes.

[illithidnapped]

He’s freezing.

Then again he always is. But the dampness of sweat peppered against skin not designed for it to begin with— the frigidity of it besides— is far from comforting if she’s searching for a sign he’s masking pain.

“Tired, darling.” He opts not to see her worry, the same way he opts not to let his own discomfort come peripherally crawling in.

He’s had worse, after all. A little bite from a Tevinter’s blade isn’t about to ruin his day.

“Funny how bringing down a relic shielding the entire city just takes it right out of you.” Said as he presses his way to rising, gently pulling her hand aside with a single, passing kiss pinned light against the crown of her head. She still reeks of combat.

He’s not one to mind.

[notathreat]

Astarion always runs cold, like someone with poor circulation in midwinter rather than the natural furnace that Joel was, but he's freezing now. There's a sheen of sweat on his skin, damp, and Ellie's eyes sharpen with worry that he unsuccessfully dodges.

Hurt, she thinks. Shock, maybe. He's not feverish-

As he catches her hand and gives her that soft kiss, something aches, squeezing down on her heart, and she reaches out for him, catches and tugs at his sleeve.

"Don't lie," she says, sharper than she means to -- she's always sharper than she means to be, when she's scared.

"You'd be pissed if I lied."

[illithidnapped]

How is it that the most unremarkable little tug against his sleeve, something so easily overlooked, is the one thing that aches with a fluttering pang beneath his ribs.

Gods above, he must be exhausted.

"I'm not lying, darling." This, at least, isn't scoffed out to appease her. One withering gesture made in the span of a resigned sigh as he lets his hold on her slip off for the sake of turning, showing off the clotted, fresher span of a stab wound at the heart of his right shoulder. Something he can't see, naturally, but had been there for the matter of earning, and now continues to ignore because they haven't the time for nursing along scratches like lost limbs.

"It's a bite from a gnat at best." And it goes without saying that he's not about to let a pinprick of an injury force him out of the fight.

He can't note the way it's gone black as spent ash at the edges. The way it spiderwebs outwards beneath the surface of pale skin.

[notathreat]

Ellie gives him a stubborn look back, brings her blood-speckled hand up to push aside the cloth of his shirt, finding the cold wound, the old blood.

She sucks in her breath between her teeth, a barely-there sound.

"A poisonous gnat," she answers, her voice low, brushing her fingertips along the blackened skin. Her touch is feather-light, not wanting to cause him pain, but she can't help but want to brush it away. It's unsettling, seeing the infection, makes her stomach want to crawl up her throat.

Instead she takes his shoulder, leans in to check his eyes for burst blood vessels.

"How long ago did you get this?"

[illithidnapped]

Poisonous—

There, the picture starts to clear. A reason as to why he's begun feeling thin as strung bowstring. Why his heartbeat is hammering high in his chest, eyelids heavier with every concurrent, necessary blink. Worrying. How does toxin affect a vampire here? He doesn’t know what’s been altered in him since walking through the Fade: for all he understands, this could be a fatal nip turned tame.

Or not tame at all.

“Before the shield fell. One of the guards in the fortress fought back when I cut him down. Last throes of the dying and all.”

The man grew too suspicious too quick. Better circumstances would’ve made for a cleaner kill, but—

“Mmph.” Her fingers roam, brushing with concern, and it burns like acid compared to the constant weight of his own shirt, prompting a measured attempt to pull away— leaving them face-to-face once more. And reddened as his eyes are (more than just his own irises) in broad daylight, Astarion at least can’t bury the spread of his festering affliction when she makes a bid at tracking it down. But she can’t bury the worry etched into her expression, either. The echo it carries of something more.

If he’s in pain, so is she.

A deep-set reminder of her past, maybe.

“I’m not human, Ellie.” Grip careful when he wraps one gloved hand across her own, squeezing by the most nominal degrees. Simple appeasement.

It’ll be just fine.

[notathreat]

More than the shadows tracing through his veins, the blush of broken blood vessels in his eyes is what disorders her. For a split-second she loses focus entirely, a sort of primal fear and grief etched across her face before he squeezes her hand, and it brings her back to the present.

"You're not immortal, either," she says softly, out of breath. She turns her hand under his to grip it, then gives it a small tug, towards her.

She's afraid, but not panicking. Not when action will help more.

"C'mon. We'll cut a path back to the med tents."

[illithidnapped]

“Might be.” He teases, allowing himself to be led through his own lagging footsteps— at times perfectly composed. At times, far too heavy. A little off balance. Keeping time to the nearby sounds of sweeping combat. “Haven’t tested it out just yet.”

With luck, he’ll never have to.

“Just be careful, darling. The only thing between us and those tents are the front lines themselves.”

And he doubts Tevinter’s going to want to let them limp their way through.

[notathreat]

"Yeah, well. Let's not test it out today." Ellie manages a smile for him, a light pat on the cheek that might be a little harder than she meant it to be, but she takes out her knife and stays close. She has the ugly suspicion that he's going to lose his footing soon.

"Only the front lines," she quips, a little huff of breath that is and isn't a laugh, and reaches out to slip her free hand into his, squeezing.

"Don't worry. I can get us through. Just keep hold of me."

CAPRI-SUN HOURS:

[illithidnapped]

When he wakes, it's after the battle's long ended. A haze of half-formed memories swimming through his head.

The medical tent reeks of blood and charred flesh, bile and herbs and the lingering remnants of spent magic— so sickening to his senses (senses that are, in fact, still far overblown from the poison only freshly diluted in his still-blackened veins) that he nearly retches in those first few unkind beats of consciousness.

He coughs, and he doesn't know she's there. He twists where he rests, forcing his own way onto his side and straining against the bandaging drawn taut across his shoulder, nearly baring his fangs for the way it pinches.

"Fucking Hells—"

[notathreat]

Battle's long ended, and Ellie's gone back out, saved a few lives, taken far more. She's checked in on several wounded she dragged back, saw them through the darkest hours, making sure they'd pull through. Astarion had gone down quickly after they gave him the antidote, and the healers had promised that all he needed was rest.

Still, she holds him in the back of her mind as she fights, and once the battle's won, she forgets the aching bandages around her foot, the filth and seawater covering her armor. There's dried blood splashed all down her front, tucked into her neck and jaw, and it's not immediately obvious to a casual observer that it isn't actually hers.

Ellie finds a place at his bedside. He's covered in cold sweat, but doesn't seem so icy any longer when she touches his forehead, and he seems to be breathing well.

The cough makes her tense immediately, then relax when she realizes he's stirring.

"Woah, easy," she murmurs under her breath, reaching out for his good shoulder to make sure he doesn't accidentally tumble himself off the cot. "Easy."

[illithidnapped]

The world is a blur in those unmoored, miserable seconds. The ones before she fits her hand to his shoulder. The ones before he glances up, bleary-eyed and pale (as though he isn't always white as a sheet in the midday sun), finally finding his way into realizing she's there.

And while true, a casual observer would have no way of knowing that the blood coating her front like a film isn't actually hers, Astarion can smell the difference.

And it's a relief.

It's a relief so damned potent that he reaches one gloved hand high, fitting it tight around the back of her neck— pulling her down until her forehead (red and ruddy and tacky still with the remnants of their collective success) rests just against his own, his eyes deeply shut.

"...you're all right."

[notathreat]

The way he reaches for her twangs something deep in her chest. It's a kind of pain that feels right, feels like coming home. Ellie drops all the quips, all the humor, and leans into him, reaching up with both hands to take his cheeks, fingertips in his hair. She brushes her thumbs over his jaw.

She hadn't realized that he'd worried for her.

"Of course I am," she murmurs back. Forehead to forehead, she lets the tension fall away from her shoulders, and just breathes.

After a few seconds, she eases back, knowing he's probably straining his shoulder, and just climbs into the cot next to him. She's done it more than enough times, nobody's gonna care.

"They said you needed rest," she says softly, her voice low. Nobody's close by, enough for it to feel private. "Battle's over." She pauses for a second, then realizes that it probably matters: "We won."

[illithidnapped]

No one's near enough but the smell of it all. The noise. She's there beside him, and her touch is mercy itself, and even as she promises they've won he finds he doesn't care— he never really cared to begin with. Val Chevin could be in flames, and the only thing he'd want to know is that she's still breathing by the end of it.

But...

"I feel awful."

His head's pounding, his body burns beneath his skin, his breathing too shallow to be comfortable. He growls through his teeth, and it's a low, unsteady sort of sound let loose as he takes hold of her wrist.

"Get me out of here."

[notathreat]

They don't fully settle before Astarion grabs her wrist, and Ellie pauses, working out the possibilities in her mind before throwing it all out the window. Instead she makes a sound of assent, shifts her hold on him to grasp his hand and ease it over her shoulders.

They can specify where to go once they're away from here.

"Hold on," she says softly, roughly, bracing herself under him. Her foot threatens to buckle, but she grits her teeth against the pain and pushes through- she's had worse, and it's not important now.

"Is this a call the griffon type of out of here?" she asks, her voice low.

[illithidnapped]

"More a..." When his voice trails off, it's slow. A sign of thought, rather than him managing to notice the injury she's presently shrugging off, the whole of his weight slipping against her own for an unsteady beat— he'd expected to be more mobile. More functional. Instead his body feels thin as a willow in a steady breeze. Sick as he'd been before, only for lack of rest now.

Perfectly useless, in other words.

"Sniff out the nearest empty building sort of get out of here."

He wants to be alone. He wants to be perfectly, undisturbedly, unoffendedly alone. Better at her side in it than laid out weak, showing the whole of his frailty to the entire damned world, curled up with the sick and the dying.

[notathreat]

"Okay."

Ellie answers gruffly, mind on the task. She doesn't like the way he feels like dead weight against her, light despite how strong she knows he is. He feels hurt, and he guards injuries like a cat. She knows that to get him to this point, he's even worse than he's letting on.

So she braces him securely against her side, sucks back the sound that wants to burst out of the back of her throat, and keeps moving.

Outside the tent is controlled chaos, and most people don't give them a second glance. Ellie keeps them going until they reach an empty building -- it looks like it was used as an outside storage unit for fancier outfits, given the boxes and the labels Ellie doesn't try to read. But there's enough of a floor space for someone to comfortably lay down, and it's locked when the arrive- despite Ellie's training, she only has the one hand and her leg's screaming. She fits the tip of one of her knives into the lock and gives it a rough twist, popping the lock off.

It's darker inside, quieter when she kicks the door shut.

[illithidnapped]

"You've gotten too good at that, you know." He mutters, pulling away from her once they're inside: it's no easy task, but the boxes and crates stacked high afford him the dignity of sinking to the floor at his own pace, slipping down into the darkness like a second skin.

He can still smell blood here, but at least the rest of it isn't puncturing his senses like a sickening alarm. Quiet and cool, and entirely— thankfully— sheltered.

His breathing comes easier once he's back down, slumped half-upright against a towering stack of stored finery, one arm lifting to beckon her in once more.

He doesn't want her far.

[notathreat]

"Easier than picking it with one hand," she jokes, but stays close, making sure he doesn't just fucking collapse on the floor. It's a relief when he doesn't, manages to go down at least somewhat gracefully.

It's chilly inside the small outbuilding, but still better than outside. Quieter, dimmer. It feels safer. Ellie catches her breath, reaches out for his hand, and eases herself down next to him, bracing her back up against the boxes with a sigh.

She keeps his hand, if only for the moment. Her fingers are freezing cold, rough, splattered with blood.

It's the first time she's truly been still in what feels like ages. Ellie breathes out, a blustery sigh, letting her shoulders relax.

[illithidnapped]

He can't really warm her is the thing. Not...properly, anyway. Not with the merits of body heat that he doesn't presently possess. So instead, after a tepid little beat spent watching the way she curls her fingers across his own (the way her body seems to sink down against the crates behind her, guard visibly dropping) he moves with his free hand to reach into the nearest bin, tugging loose— with audible, wincing effort— a heavy cloak. brocade half-peeling, threads all ripped along their edges, but whole overall.

And in something akin to that meeting in the wastes, he tucks it around her now with patient care.

"Look at you," Scoffing interjection kept light as air between them, riding the heels of her own humor. "Exhausting yourself for yet another terrible cause."

His tongue clicks against the edge of a canine, sharp. Nothing short of affectionate.

[notathreat]

"Got a weakness for terrible causes."

Ellie snickers to herself, sounding tired, and goes still as he pulls a cloak across her, tucks it in around her. She shifts, easing up her knee with a wince, to tug it across his lap, too. They can share. Her trembling settles within a few minutes, her body heat warming them both as they get their bearings in the dim place they've gone to ground.

Hurt but alive. Safe. Still.

Ellie reaches up, flicks one of Astarion's curls back from his face so it won't tickle her cheek, and settles.

"Any other hurts I should know about?" she asks.